


What to Remember When Waking

by adventureofthedancinggirl



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Emotional Hurt/Comfort, First Kiss, Friends to Lovers, Love Confessions, M/M, Series 4 Compliant, Sharing a Bed
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-05-21
Updated: 2017-05-21
Packaged: 2018-11-03 06:07:09
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,612
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10961268
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/adventureofthedancinggirl/pseuds/adventureofthedancinggirl
Summary: After the events at Sherrinford, Sherlock is having trouble keeping track of what is real and what’s not. John stays with him through the night and in the morning he whispers all the things he wants Sherlock to remember when waking.





	What to Remember When Waking

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the [@hiatustory](https://hiatustory.tumblr.com/) May Challenge on Tumblr.
> 
> Title is taken from [this poem](http://www.awakin.org/read/view.php?tid=994) by David Whyte

 

John climbs the steps to 221B. After several weeks of rebuilding the flat and another week of oscillation over the matter, he and Rosie are finally coming back for good.

There’s no way he could afford the house in the suburbs on his own even if he wanted to stay there, which he doesn’t. Even before everything that had happened with Mary, that place had never truly felt like home and John knows the years he spent there were just marking time. It’s only when he finally settles Rosie in his old room, surrounded by a small menagerie of soft toys that he feels like he’s back where he belongs.

But things are different now. It’s not just that he’s sharing the upstairs bedroom with his baby daughter or the rounded corners on all their furniture, and the childproof locks on the cabinet doors. It’s not even the absence of Sherlock’s usual experiments with human body parts littering the kitchen, though that’s part of it.

He noticed it first when Sherlock was staying with him while Mrs. Hudson made arrangements to rebuild the flat. He had seemed uncomfortable at the house and John didn’t blame him - even he is haunted by the memories of Mary and the wedge she had driven between them time and time again. After about a week Sherlock had gone to crash in Mycroft’s spare bedroom until 221B was fit for habitation and John had let the matter drop, but now that he’s home he can’t ignore it.

There’s the way Sherlock constantly deduces irrelevant things about John’s day - like which street he walked down on his way to the shops. That in itself wouldn’t be unusual if not for the frequency he does it and the way he looks to John for confirmation before looking away, as if he’s afraid he got it wrong. There’s the constant questions about John’s past - what it was like growing up with Harry, what caused them to grow apart, and if he wishes things were different. There’s the way he stares at Rosie when she plays with her favourite soft toy in the shape of a basset hound. There’s his recitation of how he proved Mrs. Hudson’s late husband was guilty and the way he bites his lip when he asks her if that’s the way she remembers it.

Then there’s the fact that he doesn’t sleep. John is used to Sherlock’s odd hours and insatiable energy when he’s on a case but they haven’t taken one in over a month. Besides, during breaks between cases, it’s not unusual for Sherlock to stay in bed until late into the morning but since he’s moved back, John has yet to see Sherlock spend more time in his bedroom than the time it takes to change his clothes.

Sherlock spends evenings lying on the couch, flitting in and out of his mind palace. But whatever he’s searching for there always eludes him and he inevitably returns to pacing the room or playing random chords on his violin, not loud enough to wake Rosie, but erratic enough that John begins to worry.

 

\-----

Finally, one night about two weeks after moving back, John comes downstairs after checking on Rosie to find Sherlock perched on his chair, knees hugged to his chest, staring into the dying fire.

John goes to the kitchen and dries the dishes just to have something to do. There’s something bothering Sherlock. John knows it has something to do with what happened at Sherrinford, but every time he’d asked about it Sherlock had brushed him off, even going so far as retreating to Mycroft’s for hours on end. Perhaps it’s for the best, John had thought during the first of these excursions - Mycroft would be able to provide some much needed answers about their past, though John’s not sure he trusts him to be entirely truthful, especially now that he knows the lengths Mycroft took to shield Sherlock from his memories.

He assumed Sherlock would eventually tell him but in the end it took John marching up to Mycroft’s door to get the bare minimum of answers. It was then that he learned of Victor’s existence and the tragic role he had played in Eurus’s childhood “game” with Sherlock. He mentioned it just once, a few days before he’d moved back but Sherlock’s only response was to shrug and adjust the headphones on the bison skull.

John continues to put the dishes away, stopping to shift a few stray mould samples in the cabinet. Sherlock has been vigilant about keeping his experiments out of Rosie’s reach but it does result in unpleasant discoveries each time John flicks one of the child-locked doors open. He adds that to the mental list of things they need to discuss eventually. When he can delay no longer he turns to head upstairs. Sherlock is still sitting crouched in his chair but looks up as John pauses beside him.

“You heading to bed too?” John asks.

Sherlock shakes his head, “Not tired.” But John sees the dark circles under his eyes and reads the utter exhaustion in his posture.

John lays a hand on Sherlock’s shoulder and feels him lean into his touch. This is new too, the way Sherlock seems to crave physical contact, though John can’t say if this has more to do with the aftermath of their reconciliation or whether it’s Sherlock’s way of affirming the reality of the world around him.

“When’s the last time you slept?”

Sherlock blinks up at him blearily, “Tuesday?” The end of the word rises in a question.

John frowns. “Today’s Tuesday. And you’re definitely not asleep.”

“I’m fine, John.”

John sighs. “Come on,” he tugs on his arm and to his relief, Sherlock allows himself to be lead down the hall to his bedroom.

“I’ve gotten good with bedtimes,” John says, “I could read you a story too if you like.”

It’s rather telling when Sherlock doesn’t scoff at the insinuation that he’s a child who needs a bedtime story and instead remains silent as he slides into bed. John smooths the covers over him and has to stop himself from running a hand through Sherlock’s hair and kissing his forehead, the way he does with Rosie.

Sherlock keeps his eyes open, staring up at John.

“Sherlock, what is it?”

“It’s nothing.”

“It’s not nothing. Talk to me. What’s wrong?”

Sherlock bunches a section of the blanket into little waves and smooths it out again before he speaks.

“It’s just...I don’t know what’s real anymore. I can’t trust my memory. Victor was my best friend but I forgot he ever existed. How could I have done that?”

Then suddenly it fits - all Sherlock’s questions about John’s life, the unnecessary deductions of things he already knew, his lingering over John’s blog, the frequent touches and the way he visibly relaxes when John returns to the flat.

John takes a seat on the edge of the bed. “Sherlock, whatever happened in the past was terrible and I know you’re still trying to sort through it all but nothing like that will ever happen again. I promise.”

Sherlock shakes his head. “You can’t possibly know that. Maybe one day something will happen in my mind palace and everything about you will be gone.”

John sees tears glimmering in the corner of Sherlock’s eyes. His hands are curled into tight fists around the blanket as though trying to hold onto reality.

John lifts his hand, hesitates, then reaches out and places it over Sherlock’s, willing him to relax his grip.

“I won’t let that happen.”

Sherlock slowly raises his head and stares at John, drinking in the sight of him, memorizing the exact color of his eyes in the dim light from the streetlamps below, the swoop of his hair, the way he bites his lip as he thinks, the fraying hem of the old shirt he wears to bed.

“You can’t promise that,” Sherlock says and drops his gaze to their hands.

“I can.”

“How?”

John squeezes his hand, “Because I’ll be here every day to remind you.”

When Sherlock remains silent he continues, “Every morning I’ll remind you of the way you drag me out of bed at all hours of the night when there’s a case. I’ll remind you of the way you read my whole life story the moment you met me. I’ll remind you that even though I shot a cabbie for you, you were the one who saved me. And every night I’ll remind you that even though you can be the most annoying arsehole on the planet when you set your mind to it, you’re still my best friend and the best man I’ve ever known.”

Sherlock gives a half-hearted chuckle and settles back against the pillows. John gets up to leave but Sherlock grabs the hem of his shirt. “Stay.” He looks down, not daring to meet John’s eyes, “Please? Just for tonight.”

John has never seen him so vulnerable before. Rosie’s been sleeping through the night much better since they moved back to Baker Street so John nods and slips out just long enough to fetch the baby monitor. When he returns Sherlock scoots over to the far side of the bed and John places a hand on the covers. Then he freezes when he realizes the significance of what he’s about to do.

This is unchartered territory. They’ve spent the night together in the same room many times, of course. Multiple cases in the English countryside, tiny inns and certain _assumptions_ made it unavoidable. But they’ve never actually slept in the same bed. John had made sure of that, even if it meant curling up on the floor if Sherlock decided to sleep. It wasn’t that he didn’t want to, quite the opposite. It was because he was afraid of what he might do if he found himself in bed with Sherlock and even more terrified of the rejection that would inevitably follow.

Still, this isn’t about him and whatever Sherlock needs, John promised himself he would give it. So he pushes aside his own feelings, pulls back the covers and slides into the empty space in Sherlock’s bed.

His first thought after he turns off the lamp is that he needs to find something to do with his hands because his left keeps straying toward Sherlock’s side of the bed. His second thought is that perhaps Sherlock would appreciate a gesture of comfort tonight. His third thought is interrupted when Sherlock’s fingers gently encircle his wrist. His fourth thought isn’t so much a thought at all, but rather, a jumble of confused and bittersweet feelings as he slowly drifts off to sleep.

In the morning John wakes to find Sherlock fast asleep beside him, fingers inches from his own. They spend the day as they have for the past week alternating between their solitary pursuits and entertaining Rosie.

But that night after Rosie is in bed, the unspoken question hangs between them until John leads the way into the bedroom, makes a show of pulling back the covers for Sherlock, then slides in beside him.

 

\-----

After a week of their new sleeping arrangement Mrs. Hudson asks John if they should turn the upstairs bedroom into a proper nursery for Rosie now that her boys have “finally sorted themselves out.” She shows him a sample of wallpaper with cartoon elephants being held aloft by hot air balloons.

John sighs and tries to tell her it’s not like that, that he’s just helping Sherlock through a tough time but his heart isn’t really in it. He can’t help wishing that this change was permanent, then feels guilty all over again because what he really should be wishing is for Sherlock’s insecurities to ease sooner rather than later even if it means sleeping apart.

Eventually he gives up trying to convince Mrs. Hudson that he’ll be moving back upstairs and allows her to redecorate the bedroom, though he persuades her to keep the patterned wall paper contained to one wall. The idea of being surrounded by dozens of airborne pachyderms is a bit alarming.

\-----

As this continues, John tries to set aside his long-ignored feelings for Sherlock. He reminds himself that this is only temporary and tries to convince himself that even if this is the most that ever happens between them, it will be enough. It’s not, of course. It will never be enough but part of him feels that even this is more than he deserves after all the times he’s pushed Sherlock away. But each night when Sherlock curls up next to him, he finds it harder and harder to keep from imagining the two of them staying like this forever.

This new arrangement seems to help though. Something about John’s presence in his bed allows Sherlock’s mind to relax. He seems moderately well-rested now, if not completely at ease, and for that John is grateful.

On nights when Sherlock is particularly restless, John reads out stories of their adventures from his blog. Sherlock tries to scoff at John’s romantic prose and sentence fragments and the way he overuses parentheticals but John knows better than to take him seriously, especially when he drifts off to sleep with a smile on his face as John runs his fingers through his hair.

 

\-----

It’s always worse in the mornings. Something about the transition between sleep and waking seems to disorient Sherlock and even with John there it takes him a while to comprehend the reality of where he is.

Every morning John wakes first and waits. As Sherlock stirs, John brushes his fingers lightly down his arm and gives his hand a gentle squeeze. Sherlock wraps his fingers around John’s wrist to feel his steady, if slightly elevated, pulse while John whispers all the things he wants Sherlock to remember when waking:

How meeting him was like waking up, like learning to run again after sleepwalking through life. That he’s not a sociopath or a machine - and that being human is not a weakness, but his greatest strength. That they’ve been through so much together and they will make it through this. How much Rosie adores him. How glad John is to be back at 221B. That the world is a better place because Sherlock is in it.

Each day the list grows, but there’s always one thing that John never says.

 

\-----

Outwardly Sherlock seems to be doing better even if he still refuses to sleep unless John leads him to the bedroom and slides under the covers with him. They start taking cases again though Sherlock seems content with what he would previously have considered “a five at best”. At crime scenes he keeps John close and constantly glances toward him during his deductions, silently asking confirmation that what he’s observed is really there.

Finally, Lestrade pulls John aside as Sherlock bends to examine a letter presumably written by a missing woman.

“Is he doing okay?” Lestrade asks. “After...everything…”

John realizes that Mycroft must have told him at least some of the story but doesn’t know how to explain what’s going on with Sherlock and their...arrangement.

“We’re getting there,” he replies.

“It’s good that you’re there, mate,” Lestrade says, “He might not admit it, but he needs you.”

John nods and they return to Sherlock’s side where they are treated to a lengthy deduction about the woman’s job, her unhappy marriage, and the obvious signs that she simply ran off with her lover.

 

\-----

One night when John slips away to tend to Rosie he returns to find Sherlock sitting up in bed, John’s pillow clutched to his chest. John seats himself on the edge of the bed next to him.

“Sherlock?” He reaches out to touch his shoulder and is surprised to see tears in his eyes, “Did you have a nightmare?”

Sherlock shakes his head .

“Did you remember something new?”

Sherlock gives his head another shake then buries his face in John’s pillow, shoulders trembling with silent sobs.

An overwhelming sense of helplessness washes over John and he does the only thing he can think to do, which is to slide in beside Sherlock and pull him into his arms. He whispers wordless sounds of comfort and brings his cheek to rest against Sherlock’s soft curls. After a while Sherlock’s sobs turn to little hiccups, then his breathing evens out but he stays buried in John’s arms.

“Sorry about your pillow,” Sherlock says eventually as he sniffles into the sodden material.

“It’s fine. I’ll go grab a fresh one.”

“No.” Sherlock tightens his hold on John. “Just...stay. Here, you can have mine.”

He shoves his own pillow over and curls up on his side using a corner of the bedsheet to wipe his nose. John sighs and rummages in the bedside table until he finds a handkerchief. He passes it over and rubs gentle circles on Sherlock’s back as he snuffles into it. When he tosses it aside John pulls him over gently to face him again.

“You want to talk about it?”

Sherlock shakes his head but presses forward to bury his face against John’s chest. John continues to murmur soft noises of comfort and runs his fingers through Sherlock’s hair.

They stay like this a while until John’s back begins to ache from the way he’s awkwardly slumped against the headboard. He knows Sherlock’s not sleeping but still hesitates to move him now that he’s quieted down.

“Sherlock?”

Sherlock doesn’t respond but releases his hold, allowing John to turn off the lamp and slide under the covers. John hesitates for a moment - they’ve been sleeping together for almost a month now but usually it’s just fingers brushing and a comforting warmth nearby, but John senses that, for whatever reason, this new closeness is what Sherlock needs tonight. He pulls him in closer so they can both rest their heads on the pillow and Sherlock wraps his fingers lightly around John’s wrist.

Just as John is slipping off to sleep Sherlock speaks, so softly that John wonders if he’s meant to hear, “I could never forget you, John.” Sherlock’s voice breaks and he continues, “but someday you’ll leave and I’ll wish I could.”

John’s breath catches in his throat but then he feels the mattress shift as Sherlock rolls over to face away from him and he knows better than to reach out this time even as Sherlock sniffles quietly into the blankets.

After a while he feels Sherlock relax into sleep beside him, but John lies awake almost til dawn, his mind replaying Sherlock’s words.

This is what has been haunting Sherlock, even more than the chaos Eurus, and Mycroft by extension, wreaked on his mind palace - the idea that John will leave him. It kills John to know that his fears are not unfounded. They both have a terrible habit of leaving each other but something always pulls them back together, like a magnetic force, or a planet orbiting its sun.

Surely though, Sherlock must know that John is here to stay. Then, as he drifts off into an uneasy sleep, a glimmer of hope flickers in his chest - Sherlock wants him here. Not just for now. Forever. And John promises himself that he will always be there.

 

\-----

When John wakes, he feels long fingers wrapped gently around his wrist and in the dim morning light he sees Sherlock’s pale eyes staring back, filled with doubt and longing. John remembers the words whispered into the night and finally realizes that this has little to do with half-forgotten memories. It has everything to do with him, John, and the future. Their future.

For several minutes, they lay there, just breathing. They’re so close, but with an infinite gap between them.

Then John laces their fingers together and whispers all the things he wants Sherlock to remember when waking. As he does, his mind replays everything in their past, good and bad, that has brought them to this point. As he reaches the end of his list he finds the courage to finally add one more thing - something he should have said weeks, months, maybe years ago.

“I’ll never leave you.”

“You might,” Sherlock whispers.

“No.” John says, “I know I did before and I’m sorry. I was hurt and confused and so, so stupid. But from now on I swear I will always be there because-”

He takes a breath. There’s no going back and maybe it’s selfish but he needs to say this as much for himself as for Sherlock.

“Because I love you.”

Sherlock looks up and John can see by the way his eyes dart across his face that he’s trying to deduce exactly what John means. He sees fear mingled with hope and knows that this is okay, more than just okay, but he also sees the doubt that creeps into Sherlock’s eyes. There was never any logic when it came to their relationship and though Sherlock has been doing so much better lately, John knows he still has trouble knowing whether his memories and perceptions are fact or fiction. He needs Sherlock to understand now, no ambiguity or chance for misinterpretation.

So he reaches his free hand up to rest on the back of Sherlock’s neck, fingertips brushing the soft curls and pulls him down so their foreheads are resting together. He feels Sherlock’s shallow breathing across his lips as he shifts the position of their entwined hands so he can feel Sherlock’s rapid pulse.

“I love you, Sherlock,” John repeats, “and I’m not going anywhere.”

Then he kisses him softly in the slanting morning sunlight spilling across the room.

**Author's Note:**

> I'm on tumblr at [adventureofthedancinggirl](https://adventureofthedancinggirl.tumblr.com/). Come say hello!


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